


shieldmaiden

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Clothing Kink, Corsetry, F/F, Pre-Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 00:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20648015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean





	shieldmaiden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).

Éowyn will admit to not having thought this part through to absolutely no one. Granted, very few people expected they'd actually win, so the concept of what happened if she was unmasked, let alone what would happen after the war, hadn't been something she'd taken into account. And the men didn't carry spare clothes with them for afterwards! 

She does regret not sneaking in at least one formal dress, though; surely one would have fit in a saddlebag. One of hers, in any case; not a dress like this, that needs time and help and structure just to wear. A simple dress, heavy and warm for the cold nights and worn in in just the right places for her to move freely, armed in secret.

"Are you sure this is necessary?" she asks again, but Lothíriel half-smiles.

"It will be worth it in the end," she says, and that does not fill Éowyn with confidence. 

"What could possibly be worth this ... this restriction?" But it only lasts for another moment, as Lothíriel finishes hanging pockets around her waist, a telltale weight on one side, and gently guides her in turning around. 

"Breathe in," she says, and Éowyn does, feeling again the light, cool touch of hands on her back, the pressure of deft adjustments down her spine. "Hold it," and she does that too, holds everything inside as always, as if all her fears and insecurities would flow out with the air she exhaled. There's a quick cinch halfway down her back and Lothíriel, mercifully, lets her breathe again.

The restriction is gone, though she still feels trapped, held up somehow as if a child's dolly made of branches and reeds, but when she does let that breath out, all the pain and confusion stays in, close to her skin and dancing wildly in her stomach, and there is Lothíriel, smiling again, fully dressed and not even a little repentant.

"Try it out," and Éowyn does, moving through an imaginary drill and finding her movement unhampered, though her balance is off and yet, it's easier to complete, to twist and bring down her airy sword. 

Lothíriel's eyes sparkle when she turns back, and Éowyn can't help but think it's both mischievous and the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

"They think it tames us," she says, before she crosses the room to rummage through a chest, as if there weren't three dresses already laid out to choose from. "This one," she says, after a moment, tugging on enough golden fabric to dress at least five villagers. But Éowyn is curious, if still not quite trusting, and doesn't stop herself from leaning into each touch as Lothíriel lifts her arms this way and that and spins her while the fabric settles and hangs just so, draping from only the widest parts of her body. It feels magical and private and special, like playing dress-ups in armour sized for teenage boys had once felt, before.

There's a knock on the door, then a voice. "Coming!" Lothíriel calls, and motions for Éowyn to lift her hair. There's one more touch, a teasing, light trace downwards, and then Lothíriel is holding out her circlet.

"I'll help you out of it later," she says, and the train of her dress, bird's egg blue and a deep velvet that reflects light like the clearest of still lakes, sweeps out behind her as she accepts her escort's arm and is gone.

Éowyn can feel Lothíriel's touch even as she stands in place, at the front of the crowd, and her eyes in each glance that passes her over, unknowing.


End file.
